


lutrósis

by elrohir



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Maglor is a Sad Boi, Music as self-reflection, The Oath of Feanor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 11:06:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13522953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrohir/pseuds/elrohir
Summary: All that his hapless house had accomplished was now naught, and the deeds of his brothers and sire were buried with Beleriand when it crumbled.





	lutrósis

He stood on the crest of a high hill overlooking the hidden valley of Imladris, the last place of refuge for his kind between the Misty Mountains and the Sea. Soft music drifted upwards in the light of Elbereth’s stars, the ancient songs of his people still echoing potent and true in his ears. His fingers drifted subconsciously to the well-worn strings of the lute at his side, but he would not join in their revels.

He could not. He would not mar the sanctity of Imladris with his tainted song. His Oath, his past, his father—where Maglor walked destruction brewed; what was pure burned to ash in his hands. All that his hapless house had accomplished was now naught, and the deeds of his brothers and sire were buried with Beleriand when it crumbled.

He knew well that within the refuge of Imladris yet dwelt Elrond, his foster-son, now a father of his own, one of the few east of the Sea who still remembered Maedhros his brother. Maglor wondered if Elrond ever thought on him, since many years and ordeals of the long ages had passed since their days together.

For Maglor, at least, the pain of the terrors of the First Age still smoldered raw in his chest, though the discordant confusion of what remained of his Song drowned out the ache somewhat.

_I cannot ever go back to my people._

A part of Maglor longed for the warm light of Elrond’s halls, and his chest squeezed, unbidden, at the thought. But he would not inflict the dark stain of his presence upon his foster-son and those under his protection. He had lost that right the moment the Silmaril burned his hand.

Pain stabbed sharply in his heart and he sat down beside a nearby rock, blinking back sudden tears. A chill wind from the Misty Mountains carved at his face, nipping at the tips of his nose and ears.

He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. He would not let himself weep. The time for tears was long past; the stretch of the years should have faded the intensity of his memories into dull half-remembered sentimentality. The raw mental wounds that the First Age inflicted upon him were meant to have closed over thousands of years past, and he would not let this one moment of emotional vulnerability reopen their scars.

He caught his breath and looked down into the valley’s pale light once again, focusing his scattered mind outside of himself. The delicate spires and sloped roofs of Elrond’s house blended seamlessly into the pastoral beauty of the dark golds and deep reds of the beeches in autumn, though the colors were muted by the moonlight. The swift waters of the Bruinen glistened silver in the radiance of the Kindler’s stars.

The snatches of song that drifted into his ears recalled his early days in Aman, when the world was young and he and his brothers wandered freely in the wide lands of the Blessed Realm, curiosity insatiable and ingenuous minds eager for discovery.

Maglor found less joy in wandering now. Middle-earth was a walking shadow of its past glory, and few remembered now the stone-wrought halls of Nargothrond, or the high hill-watch of Himring, or the clear fountains of Gondolin-that-was. He knew his cousin Artanis was building her kingdom in the forest-realm of Lorien, but for all its splendor it paled against the painted caverns of Menegroth of old.

_Alas, for that which is no longer! And the brief, bright flames that were my father and brothers no less. No song could convey in full measure what would have been had our Oath not devoured it._

His heart squeezed and Maglor let his tears fall unhindered; only then did he allow himself to pluck the strings of his weathered lute. Quiet notes in a minor key drifted upwards and mingled with the sweet music of Imladris in the valley below. Though the long ages had diminished the glory of his people, it was not so with his skill of minstrelsy.

He had no realistic hope that someone would hear his playing from the far-away halls of Elrond’s house, and indeed in the logical part of his mind he hoped they wouldn’t, but in the core of his being the dull ache of loneliness would not leave him. In his younger days he endured his moments of weakness with song, but even that could not fully assuage him now.

If he were his brother, he would have donned a mask of steeled strength and buried his pain deep inside where no one (except perhaps their cousin Findekano) could know its full dimensions. But his brother was no more, and he was not his brother, and Maglor, left behind, had no one whom to sing his inmost thoughts to.

Thus, he let his grief rise to Varda as a prayer in the form of soft chords from his lute, though he knew not if the Valar would hear or heed him.

Not to say that he did not deserve the doom that had been wrought upon him. His deeds ere the War of Wrath marred the face of Arda were of no less than the worst of his kin.

While he yet lived he staved off the cold grip of the Everlasting Dark, but as the ages stretched on, a growing part of him wondered if this was his doom, if to live out the remainder of his days haunted by the ghosts of his memories and the phantom pain of old wounds was some cruel irony of his Oath. Though he had survived the razing of Beleriand and persisted well into the Third Age, it was at work no less in him than it was in his brothers.

His playing grew wilder, more desperate, but the notes were lost in the growing rage of the wind, and he let his fingers fall flat.

_I have failed even myself._

The stars seemed to dim under the darkling sky. There was no salvation to be found for him now, and he doubted there ever was. With a sigh, he stood up from his seat at the base of the rock. No matter how deeply he longed for companionship aside from the stars and trees, no matter how much he tried to fill the well of aching loneliness inside his stomach, he was bound by the cruel decrees of his cursed Oath.

Maglor turned his face from the bright joy of the valley and did not look back.

**Author's Note:**

> wow look i managed to write something more than 1k words are you proud of me


End file.
